Dying is the Easy Part
by FlowersandFire
Summary: Rebecca is a woman trying to find her mother and sister. Traveling with her father, wanting to survive in a world full of monsters, she encounters a rough redneck. Will he be enough to stop her in her tracks and keep her from her goal? Will he be a friend or an enemy? Will he end up loving her or killing her? Life can easily become a living hell. Sometimes dying is the easy part.
1. Chapter 1

**Hey! First Walking Dead story ever…**

**Okay, first fanfiction story ever, but I promise you, I put a 110% into this. It is relatively well written, though I appreciate any criticism and corrections. I'll update at the very least, every week, maybe sooner. I'll try to keep the chapters a fair amount of words. I don't wanna end up giving you guys not enough to read every chapter. **

**Rating could change depending on demand… Eh, let's be honest. It all depends on if can keep my hormones under control. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Walking Dead. If I did, I'd probably kidnap Daryl (aka, Norman Reedus) and force him to teach me how to work that crossbow of his. You can take that as sexually or non-sexually as you like. **

**The story my darlings!**

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**Stiff = zombie or walker**

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"That's the last one," I muttered, wiping my knife on the grass. While I removed the old blood and decaying flesh from my weapon, I kept a wary eye on the once moving corpses.

A hand tugged on the back of my shirt, urging me to stand up. I didn't need to turn around to know who would be there. I didn't even suspect for a minute that it would be a stiff behind me, but nevertheless, I kept my knife ready as I stood upright.

"We need to keep moving," a strong, male voice advised. I nodded, turning around to face my only travel companion in this cruel new world.

A strong chin, stubble increasing day by day, a graying but full head of hair, and dark, sincere eyes.

My father.

"Okay, dad," I agreed. I stuck my weapon in its place, feeling its reassuring weight against my hip. The trees around us provided shade from the sun trying to force its way through the leaves. It was the only thing keeping me from sweating profusely in the heat of the day. By my estimation, winter should be coming soon, but it didn't seem to be cooling down any. However, the woods, with their trees, provided cool safety from the heat of the day.

Most people would think that the dead would be out here, in the woods, attacking animals or taking refuge in the abundance of land. Most people would initially reason that they belonged in the woods, as if we were living in a cliché horror movie and all the big bad monsters were stuck in a haunted forest. However, despite a few stiffs crossing our path every now and then, the woods stayed generally clear of bloodthirsty zombies. They would be out here soon, I knew that, but for now, most of them were still roaming the cities. They stayed within the confines of buildings and civilization, where people used to inhabit. There was still enough fresh meat to keep them satisfied. There were still enough bodies to keep them satiated.

My father handed me his gun as he shrugged out of his backpack. I held onto the cool metal, relishing in the safety it could deliver, as he retrieved a map of Georgia. We had already passed though a good portion of safe areas and hazardous ones. We'd marked them down on the map. In any case that we would need to back track, we would be able to remember which areas to avoid. A red marker and a blue one. Areas circled in blue contained little to no zombies. Areas in red, well, they had too many to even begin to comprehend.

He took out the blue marker, marking down the fifteen miles we had hiked today in the ink, he nodded to himself.

"We should be finding a farmhouse or a building pretty soon. It's about ten or so miles in between every one and we spotted the last one about five hours or so ago, so I'm guessing if we press on, we'll find shelter for the night." I smiled lightly, thanking the heavens that my observant father was with me. We were fortunate enough to make it out of Atlanta alive together.

My smile dropped as I remembered all the people that didn't.

I handed him his gun when he had the backpack on. He didn't comment on my miserable frown.

My black combat boots were nearly silent as we resumed our journey. I hadn't quite perfected the noiseless walk yet. I still alerted the stiffs to our presence occasionally. I'd slip up, step on twig or some dry leaves, and then they would notice and attack. My father however, had adapted better than me. His feet, though larger and in sturdier boots than mine, made no noise on the dry ground.

It was silent for about the first half hour, but I grew tired of the quiet quickly.

"Dad?"

His eyes scanned the forest, searching for stiffs, before he nodded to me. "Yeah?"

"Do you think… do you think they're still alive?"

I didn't stop to observe his facial expression. I didn't try and force an answer out of him as we walked on. I didn't want one, not really, but I still needed to know. I needed someone with all the answers. I was just a scared, little girl, looking to her father for reassurance in a time of need. I was twenty-five, I was supposed to be able to handle the world, but I guess I had never really prepared for it to throw me this kind of curveball.

A zombie apocalypse, who in the world would've been prepared?

I heard him sigh and I tensed, waiting for some form of comfort.

"I'm not sure."

I could feel my spirits deflating. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I knew that giving me the honest answer was for the best. He didn't want me to get my hopes up. He required me to be prepped and ready for what fate would throw me. I wasn't a baby anymore and I wouldn't be treated as one. Because he loved me, he wouldn't sugarcoat our situation. He would give me the truth and then leave me to cope with it in whatever way I could.

Just like always.

It was then that I felt grateful. He wasn't babying me. I wasn't getting any special treatment. I had never been coddled and I wasn't about to be now. A ghost of a smile on my face, I tilted my head in acknowledgement. He was treating me as an adult, giving me only what I needed to stay strong. My father was still looking out for me, just in a different way than before.

"Thanks," I breathed. The deepening lines of his face stretched as he offered me a tired smile, understanding without any explanation. After another beat of quiet, I opened my mouth to speak again. "If we find them, when we get to Florida, and they're alive, where will we go from there?"

My father became thoughtful. He was a leader through and through, but even he had his faults. He couldn't plan everything out, because in the shit world we lived in now, plans never really ended up working the way you wanted them to.

He didn't give the classic "I don't know" anyone else would offer up as an excuse. No, despite things not always working in our favor, my father was a leader. He would work to protect me and keep order as well as he could.

"I'm thinking Camp Blanding. I heard they were still holding up in all this." I nodded. I could question him further. I could ask what we would do if Blanding wasn't safe or if they wouldn't take us in, but I didn't. We were taking this one step at a time and truthfully, I feared the reply I would receive if I asked. That dreaded "I don't know" hung over my head, always the possibility of being an answer.

My mind flashed back to a multitude of stiffs, all patrolling the grounds of a once peaceful area. Bodies littering the ground, blood and flesh everywhere, filled my head. A place that surely was once safe, now nothing more than a feeding ground. I grimaced.

"I still can't believe Fort Benning was… I can't believe it was overrun. It was supposed to be the refuge people were looking for. It was supposed to be safe," I murmured, my head still spinning with the sight of so many dead, moving and unmoving.

I noticed the sun making its descent downwards through the branches, but didn't comment, knowing that if my father was wrong, and we didn't find shelter, we'd either make camp or sleep in a tree.

I could feel his dark gray eyes turn on me, but I didn't want to look back at him. I didn't want to see the sadness, the loss. I didn't want to see the strength fighting against the desperation.

"You have to let it go, we'll find something better, Rebecca. Just forget it ever existed, it's gone now," he instructed me softly. How could I? How could I forget what had been burned into my memory? Instead of saying this, I simply nodded.

Most people didn't realize how important small goals were. Just having something trivial to look forward to. Discovering shelter. Finding food. Getting through the next city without being bitten. It was what kept me striving for survival. I made me put one foot in front of the other. After a while though, even small goals wouldn't save me from the hopelessness. I needed something big, something to look forward to-something that forced me to believe that it would get better. I needed something to push me to accomplish those ever important small term goals. My main goal, the thing that kept me going, was my mother and sister in Florida. Riley, younger than me by three years, couldn't even lift a gun. My mother, her sweet face and innocent disposition, wouldn't be able to handle the horrors of the apocalypse. I needed to get them. I was working toward getting to them.

I knew my father would never admit it, but his long term goal wasn't the same as mine. His objective was to keep me alive. If getting to Florida meant dying, he'd head the opposite direction and forget all about my sister and mother. Not that he didn't love them, because he did, but why would he risk his remaining family on a whim that they just might be surviving?

My head lifted, breaking my staring contest with the ground in front of me. I pushed these thoughts aside, trying to fill them with cheerfulness as I spotted a hopefully abandoned farmhouse.

"What did I tell you?" my father chuckled. We smiled at each other, knowing we'd be relatively safe for tonight.

Small goals, small goals.

It didn't take long to check the perimeter of the house. The building was safe, maybe even unscathed in all this. Food remained stocked in the pantry-canned foods and boxed items mostly. The people who had lived there had either left, unable to take much with them, or had died and wandered out, searching for a different kind of food source.

I refilled our packs with all of the goods, leaving out two cans of beans for dinner. I found a few useful looking knives stuck in some drawers and smiled at the score. Once upon a time, I might have cringed at the thought of ransacking a potentially deceased person house, but as I constantly reminded myself, it was a new world. There was no room for remorse and guilt.

This knowledge didn't stop me from releasing a sigh at an old picture frame, encasing a picture of a happy, older couple.

I heard my father's steps creaking on the wood above me as he searched the upper level of the house. The doors and windows, a priority as soon as we stepped into this house, had been shut tight and locked. Though we could find anything to board them up, it didn't matter. Sleeping in this sanctuary would be better than resting in the open outdoors.

My legs, though slender and strong, were not built for walking hours and hours with no end. Our truck, the one we had owned before this all started, broke down as soon as we escaped Atlanta. We'd been heading toward Fort Benning when it happened. We suddenly had to continue on foot, unable to find another working vehicle.

That had to have been the worst part of the trip. Not the zombies trying to eat us or the empty, broken down cars we encountered, but the walking. I had never been much for endurance. I could run well enough and for a good amount of time, but I had never focused on stamina. After that first day of going on foot, I could still remember the soreness of my legs and feet. I winced, thankful that I had built up some muscle and I didn't have to through that amount of pain anymore.

The next vehicle we rode in, a hotwired-I had gotten one hell of a dirty look from my father at that particular skill-blue Toyota made it about halfway out of Fort Benning. It stopped moving for the same reason every other automobile we stumbled upon did-no fuel. There was no gas anywhere. Every time we tried to siphon some fuel, we came up with nothing. It had either run out or been taken by other unknown survivors.

It had been a week since that Toyota slowed to stop in the middle of the highway. One week of trudging through the forest. When we came to the outskirts of a town, we'd go in. We'd gather supplies and check for working cars, but we wouldn't stay. We'd move on, keep searching for something better, all the while trying to reach my sister and mother. It got lonely and tiring, but it kept us alive.

I ran a hand through my hair, heaving out a tired breath. As I pulled my hand away, I noticed the grime and dirt that stuck to my fingers. I wrinkled my nose in disgust at my own growing filth. As soon as we found a shower or a bath or a pond, I was jumping in as quickly as I could.

As I heard my father climbing the steps, heading back down toward me, I picked up my pack, waiting for his verdict. Upstairs or downstairs? Did he deem it safe enough for both of us to sleep at the same time? Would we have to take turns keeping watch like so many times before?

I stared at him, noticing his now bulkier backpack and realizing he had been as prosperous as I had been in finding supplies.

"We sleep upstairs tonight. It's safe enough, we'll be able to hear and wake up if anything goes astray." I sighed gratefully.

"Thank god," I laughed, already in a lighter mood as I headed toward the steps. Dinner forgotten in my mind at prospect of sleeping in an actual house tonight, I bounded up the stairs as quickly as possible. Old dust entered my nose, indicating the abandonment of this home. I didn't care, happy to have a good night's rest after sleeping in trees for the past few days.

It didn't take me long as I headed into a bedroom to notice the beds. I let out an excited squeal. I clasped a hand over my mouth, knowing we still had to be quiet. I cursed my loud screech and waited for a reprimanding from my father.

I heard the chuckle from my father in the next room as he heard my sound of delight and I relaxed.

I hurriedly dropped my bag to the floor along with my durable leather jacket. I kicked off my boots hastily and released my hair from the ponytail it had been trapped in. With a deep breath, I made a run for the bed, spreading my arms and legs out wide as I flopped onto the soft quilt and mattress. The old bed gave a slight groan of protest before quieting.

I wrapped myself in the covers, resting my head on a rough, lumpy pillow. Today had been a good day. We'd found shelter and food. More than that though, I could feel something coming. Something good. Something I would need to work for. Something forcing me to keep going, keep living.

I couldn't help myself as I fell asleep. Two words crept into my mind, reminding me of the short burst of joy I'd received just moments ago. They made me reflect on my achievements of the past and contemplate my achievements of the future. Two words, echoing in my head.

Small goals.

* * *

_I groaned sleepily, raising my head from the slightly scratchy pillow. The tank top I'd been wearing for the past week clung stickily to my skin, working against me in the humidity of the night. My jeans were twisted uncomfortably around my legs as I kicked myself out of the blankets, wondering what had woken me up. My eyes squinted into the dark, searching for the source of disrupt. However, as I scanned the room, I found nothing. I couldn't even sense a disturbance in the atmosphere. My nose detected nothing but the mustiness from an old house and the musky scent of the woods. No scent of decaying bodies reached my nose, no blood or decomposing flesh made itself known. It couldn't be a zombie; the lack of a rotten odor entering my nose told me that. I heard nothing besides my nervous breathing. No scraping on the old woods floorboards, no slam of a door, no bang on a window. _

_Something had woken me up though. Despite the zombie apocalypse keeping me on high alert, I couldn't break the habit of being a heavy sleeper. If something had forced me to venture out of the refuge of a numb sleep, then it was something important. I cautiously reached for the knife I'd placed under my pillow, keeping it clenched in a tight fist. The gun, carefully resting on the side table, glistened in the moonlight that had managed to slip through the trees and through the window. I rolled off the bed, grabbing the lethal metal as I crept toward the door. _

_As if God had decided to bless me in that exact moment, my feet were soundless as I slipped out of my room. _

_I took notice of my fathers closed door, deciding not to bother him. If it ended up being one harmless stiff scratching on the door, trying to get in, I would kill it efficiently and quietly. I could take care of myself, though I preferred to not be alone, I could make it on my own. I could do what needed to be done to survive. _

_As I reached the bottom of the steps, my hold on my weapons faltered and I froze. _

_The door stood wide open. Wind, heavy with hot heat, blew in, finally making the smell known to me. I repressed a gag, tears forming at the corner of my eyes and bile rising in my throat. Just enough moonlight came in through the open door to allow me to see. _

_Blood. So much of it. It stained the floors, splattered against the walls, poured across the body. I closed my eyes as I took in the carcass, immediately trying to forget the open and bloodied corpse. I didn't want to see the body parts marred with bites and hand marks. I didn't want to study the strewn limbs and intestines._

_That face, with the subtle expression of power, remained strong, even in death. The determined set of the prominent chin and narrowed dark gray eyes staring directly at me told me he went down with a fight. I choked back a sob, knowing exactly what did this. I finally forced myself to actually see the face of the body. _

_It was my father, lying on the floor, his entrails ripped out._

_I tried not to scream as I backed away, accidently dropping my gun and knife, but too frightened to go near the body to pick them up. My breathing became harsh and uneven as I backed away, my eyes unsure of where to go as they flicked around the room. _

_My whole being became paralyzed as I bumped into a chest. A soft, slimy chest that heaved against my own. Raspy breaths reached my ears as my eyes widened to large saucers of green. I slowly turned around, already recognizing the scent of death and desperation._

_I wasn't prepared for the sight before me. My mother, dressed in a ripped dress covered with guts and dirt, gawked hungrily at me. Her yellow and cloudy eyes unseeing, only comprehending me as her next meal. She inched toward me, her once beautiful auburn hair stringy around her shoulders and brushing against my face. She opened her mouth, letting out a hiss. I couldn't move a muscle as I gazed stupidly at her. She had bits of flesh stuck to her teeth as she bared them at me. I tried not to think about whose flesh she had just ripped into. _

_I didn't go down fighting like my father. I didn't do anything. I simply stared at the woman who had raised me. She lunged forward, but all I could do was watch her with wide, terrified eyes. I sucked in one last breath._

_And then screamed as she bit into my neck._

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**Tell me what you thought! Good, bad, atrocious? Sorry for not having Daryl in these scenes, he will be comin' in soon!**

**Thanks for reading! **


	2. Chapter 2

'**Ey guys. You ready for today's awesome (depending on your opinion) chapter? And look, I even updated sooner than a week, yay! I think I'll update every Saturday, maybe sooner, but definitely every Saturday. I forgot to tell everyone that this story is starting in season 2. Just thought it would help clear up any confusion later on! **

**Love for follows, favorites, and reviews! Thanks to all my reviewers!**

**DIUC: **I'll try and update often, at the very least, every week! I'm really tryin' to get to Daryl! I LOVE him SO much. I can't wait till I get to post the chapters with him in them. Thanks for getting interested in my story. *hugs and smiles*

**SilverAdvenger12: **Love the support! I really hope you'll continue to like it! I'm tryin' to keep everything interesting. *cookies and love*

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Walking Dead or any of its characters or its story line and plot. However, if I did own it (which I don't), then I'd be so happy I would go insane.**

**Literally. Mentally. Insane. **

**Anyway, without further ado, the chapter!**

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**Stiff = zombie or walker**

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"Rebecca! Get up!" I heard a voice urge, grasping at my shoulder, near the spot on my collar bone. As I felt the reminding pressure on my neck, the images flashed through my mind and my hand tensed underneath my pillow.

I stood up in a flash, a knife pointed toward the attacker. My feet wide and balanced, my body leaning toward the gun on my side table.

It took me a minute to process the face, but when I did, I lowered the knife instantly, shame creeping into my system. "Sorry, dad," I sighed, handing him my weapon wordlessly. He took it. As soon as my hands were no longer in possession of the knife, I rubbed at my eyes, clearing away the wariness and distress.

"Nightmares?" he questioned for the fifth morning in a row, with a familiar, sympathetic stare.

"Yeah," I mumbled, moving past him so he wouldn't be able to see my drained, hopeless expression. I wished I could say that the horrific dreams had started when the apocalypse did, but that would be a lie. They had always been there, sitting in the back of my mind, just waiting until dark to show themselves. It had been that way every night for the past six years.

"What was it this time?" he probed gently, understanding I could close up at any moment and shut him out.

I carefully began searching the closet for jeans or some other reasonable clothing I could take with me. I was really getting sick of only having three changes of clothes. "Just… more stiffs," I muttered, unable to give him the details. I could feel the perspiration on my skin caused by the fear and horror of the dream. It mixed with the dried sweat, grime, and muck that hadn't left my body for some time. I felt like a walking dirt magnet.

It was his turn to sigh, the happy mood from the previous night absent. "They can't even leave us alone in our dreams," he grumbled. I grunted, not wanting to further this particular conversation.

"Do they have nothing useful here?" I asked, changing the subject as I searched through the garments dangling from the hangers. The old dresses, all reaching ankle length, seemed as if they should be displayed in a museum. They filled the closet, limply hanging off the hangers with faded colors and old fashioned prints. All of them were flimsy excuses for clothes, impractical and useless.

"Afraid not, I've already searched through all the other closets. Don't even bother," he answered with a small, forced smile. I strode over to my pack, irritation threatening to overcome all other feelings. I picked up the pack, slinging it over my shoulder. I took a deep breath. I hated that something as simple as a nightmare could steal my good mood away.

"Are we heading out?"

"Yeah, we need to get some more ground covered. We'll see if we can get to a town, maybe find a vehicle," he strategized calmly, tossing me a granola bar. I caught it, ripping it open as I followed my father out the door.

I breathed in and out evenly, mentally washing away my bitterness. A serene calmed filled me as we exited the house.

I smiled despite the nightmare that remained fresh in my mind.

Today _would_ be a good day. I would make sure it was.

* * *

The late afternoon sun tinted everything with orange and pink, allowing happiness and sadness to creep into my system. They battled for dominance as I glanced around, frowning at the warning twist in my gut.

My father stopped me, his arm coming in front of me, indicating for me to slow to a halt. I inspected the woods, my eyes scanning over every tree and shrub. I had sensed something off more than a few minutes ago, but had brushed it off as my usual nervousness. Now that my father detected it too, I knew something was most definitely wrong.

It wasn't a zombie kind of off. No stiffs could be seen anywhere. The stench of death didn't permeate the air. No, this was something else.

With a small gesture from my father, I glimpsed down at the ground, furrowing my eyebrows together. I had never been good at reading the ground. I could barely distinguish a bear track from a raccoon one. The closest I'd ever gotten to being accommodated with the wilderness was going fishing with my father every weekend. However, even I couldn't help but notice how the twigs were snapped abnormally and the leaves had been crunched unnaturally in some places. Footsteps marred into the dirt, too harsh to be any animal. I peered up at my father, nodding to him.

I silently grabbed my gun, clicking off the safety and gripping it tight. My father did the same.

My body stayed on high alert, waiting for the threat to present itself. It could just be another lone survivor, harmless and on the run. Or it could be a desperate hostile, willing to do anything and everything to steal our remaining ammo and supplies.

I kept my back to my father. His was to mine and we worked in unison as we covered the ground, grasping at the small signs in the dirt to follow the path. Despite the trail, I felt eyes on us. It could be my paranoia, a valid excuse, but I couldn't be sure whether my uncertain instincts were a warning or a hindrance in this instance. My skin prickled with the familiarity of being examined by unidentified eyes. I kept quiet, not making my father aware to my suspicions. If I spoke aloud or made a sound, then we, and our position, would undoubtedly be given away.

Maybe if I had heeded my instincts better, I would have seen it coming. I would have noticed the trail subtly turning back around, leading us in a circle. I would have detected the silence, the inaudible sound of nature being disturbed by something sinister. I would have realized that someone was indeed watching us, ready to strike.

The unnamed assailant, perched in the tree to my right, was a lousy shot. Clearly inexperienced with the way the bullet strayed from the heart or head-whichever area they had been aiming for-and curved too far to the right. Probably a frightened citizen who had just picked up the gun and decided to use it; a coward trying to steal and cheat their way through this rough life by harming others.

The shot didn't have to be good though, it just had to be enough. It only needed to hit one of us. It needed to create a chink in our armor.

My eyes met cold, nervous, steel ones. I had barely half a second to look him over. I didn't immediately raise my gun, considering this person to be afraid and seeking help. I didn't have enough time to warn my father or utter a word. I didn't even have enough to time to harden my resolve and pull the trigger. The person, easily able to blend in with the tree, was suspended on a branch, awaiting the perfect time to shoot. And he found it.

I heard the shot before anything else, the loud crack that startled the birds into flying away and caused the tree to sway from the kickback of the gun.

A searing pain in my right shoulder made me drop my gun. I gasped, unsure of what had happened, though I understood it. I knew a shot had rung out and a bullet had been released. I just didn't realize that it had hit me.

I stumbled back into my father just as I felt him turning around. I heard a second shot right next to my ear. I wanted to turn around, ask my father if he was okay, but I didn't. Instead, I watched as the person fell out of the tree, cursing and yelling in a distinctly male voice.

"Rebecca," I heard my father shout loudly. His voice bellowed out, scratchy and raw. I had never seen my father cry, but I knew without observing him, that he was about to.

My hand came up to my shoulder. It hadn't hit anything fatal, that I discerned, but if the blood loss didn't kill me, the eventual infection that set in would. I processed this, my mind reacting logically as soon as I comprehended that it was me that had been injured. I tried to apply pressure, but I couldn't do it properly, not by myself. If I could just get to the bandages in my bag. If I could just hold myself together long enough to stop the bleeding. If I could just keep from passing out from the pain, then I could tend to the wound before I lost too much blood.

I didn't know I had fallen until my father caught me. He lowered me down onto the forest floor.

I breathed in and out roughly, trying not to cry from the pain. "Pressure," I panted to my father, knowing he would do as I asked. I closed my eyes as his hands compressed onto my shoulder, forcing me to clench my teeth together to keep from screaming and attracting every stiff in the area. If the gunshot didn't bring them, then my screams would. I pulled my hand away, noticing the red of the blood staining my skin.

I felt my logical grasp on things start to slip. I tried to hold onto it, but the fear inside of me and the alarming crimson surrounding my body forced me into a state of shock. I could die today. I could _die_.

No. No, no, no, no! My father would know what to do. He always did. He would save me and we would be okay. We would be fine. I would get up, we would keep moving forward, and it would be like nothing ever happened. We were a team and we would stay a team. We would be on our way to my mother and sister and everything would be _fine_.

As my father gray eyes bored into my green, I wondered if I actually considered that to be true. It was a miracle that I had survived as long as I did. The panic and the dread that filled my father's face told me everything. There was a chance. A chance I would die and never come back. A chance I would never get to my mother and sister. A chance he would give up.

I choked, pushing away tears and sorrow.

"If-If I don't make it-"

"Rebecca," my father stopped me. I squeaked as he determinedly applied more pressure. He didn't release the added weight, but gave me an apologetic look laced with fear. "You will not die today," he declared forcefully, staring down at me with that fatherly gaze of his. Despite the tears brimming in his eyes, I knew what he was thinking. Be strong, Rebecca, be strong. I haven't given up yet, so why would I now? He appeared almost reprimanding, as if he was scolding me for trying to die on him. "Fathers are _not_ supposed to outlive their children," he supplied, as if this was the exact reason I would survive. I couldn't help but smile at him.

"Dad," I grinned shakily. I let out a watery laugh before sucking in a breath, my sudden chest movement sending a raw ache through me. Black spots swam in my vision. Suddenly the light breaking in through the trees didn't seem so bright anymore. The heat of the day didn't seem so scorching. "Just-just get to them. Mom a-and Riley." My father didn't say anything back, or if he did, I didn't hear him. I felt no reassurance as I faded in and out.

I knew I was losing blood and fast. I didn't know whether the pain or the blood loss would be the thing to make me lose consciousness. How could it be that I had been shot only moments ago? How could it be that everything was ending so quickly?

After waves of agony, for a split moment, I felt nothing. In that second, I glanced at my father, not completely seeing or hearing anything. My blood smeared everywhere and my loud, labored breathing were the only thing to get through to me. "Love you, dad," I whispered with a weak smile.

My words were coherent and my thoughts were sane. I was confident that he still saw me as his little girl, despite the fact I had killed a few zombies and hotwired some cars in my day. I recognized that he loved me no matter what. I knew he would say it back, I didn't need for him to reassure me, but I wanted to hear him say it before I let God, or whoever had decided to control my fate, take me. I wanted that simple, little comfort.

I didn't get to hear him say anything as everything faded to black and my whole body slackened.

* * *

My head ached. A throbbing beginning in my temples and bending back behind my eyes welcomed me into consciousness. My eyelids weighed down heavily from my recent slumber. The after effects of a deep, black sleep affected me as I struggled to become aware. My whole body pulsated with soreness and I didn't attempt to try and fight the urge to stay motionless.

My eyes hesitantly opened, noting the darkened skies. I felt no heat from a fire, though the night should have been warm all by itself, it wasn't though. I felt cold. I could sense the goose bumps rising on my arms just as these thoughts passed through my head. I wanted the warmth of a fire, but I knew how illogical it would be to light one. It would attract every stiff within in the vicinity.

It took me a few good moments before I got up the nerve to try and move my rigid body. I immediately attempted to sit up, but ended up crying out as a sharp pain shot through my shoulder and arm. I heard movement from beside me as I soon as the sound left my mouth.

"Rebecca?" my father asked, breathing a sigh of relief. I tilted my chin downward, trying to get a good look at my injury. The bandages on my arm, though appearing as if they had been freshly changed, were stained with red. They wrapped tightly around my shoulder, moving towards my arm. I gritted my teeth, turning my head away as everything came back to me.

"How long ago?" I demanded. How long had I been out? How long ago was it that I had been shot? How long had I been surviving with a bullet in my shoulder?

My father pulled out a water bottle with a stern face.

"About an hour and a half, maybe two," he informed emotionlessly. I couldn't tell if he remained stoic for my benefit or his. I reached for the water with my good arm, cringing at the pain it caused me. He shook his head, moving the bottle out of my reach. I sighed, hating the feeling of being helpless. He gently poured the water into my mouth. "I bandaged your wound. I've been keeping it tightly bound and clean. I can't dig the bullet out, not without you losing more blood than you already have. Stitches aren't an option, not with that slug in there, but your shoulder should be good, for now."

I growled, leaning back onto the ground as the cool water slid down my throat.

"We need to get the bullet out," I exhaled, knowing that we couldn't. I wouldn't survive the blood loss and I'd probably end up passing out from the pain. We didn't have the proper medical supplies to do the procedure. I'd need a blood transfusion to make it. At the very least, we'd require clean utensils and medicine to prevent infection.

I understood what this meant without really needing to think it through. I was going to die.

I didn't alert my father to my beliefs, knowing the argument that would ensue. He was nearly sixty. He already had too much on his plate without me going and dying on him. I inwardly chuckled at the mental scolding I was giving myself.

I made myself think through other possibilities, other ways to survive. Just as I had started really trying to figure something out, my father began speaking, handing me a stick of jerky as he did.

"Eat up, you're gonna need to regain your strength and replace that blood you lost." I took a bite, holding the dried meat with my good hand. I observed his carefully passive expression. I had to force myself to swallow as he started explaining his next course of action. "I'm thinking about scouting ahead, seeing if I can find a hospital or pharmacy or something, anything that could be holding medical supplies."

I shook my head, immediately regretting the decision as pain traveled through my head in waves. "You can't go alone, it's too dangerous. Even if you do, what about me? Do I just lie here and wait for some stiff to find me?" I protested harshly.

He stood up abruptly. "I'm leaving in the morning. I'll set you up in a tree, it shouldn't be more than a few hours until I get back," he explained calmly. I furrowed my eyebrows, fighting off tears of anger and desperation. My father reacted better to rational arguments.

"What if pass out? Fall out of the tree and break my neck?" He lifted up some rope, indicating his intention to tie me to the tree. I scowled at him. "This isn't smart, dad."

He ran a hand through his dark hair. "It's the only way, Rebecca. You won't survive, not without some new supplies, some medicine." I could see his reasoning, I really could, but he couldn't leave me on my own. We worked better together. Parent and child. Father and daughter. Protecting each other and watching each other's backs. I knew if he went off searching for supplies that might not even exist, he may never come back.

I desperately wanted to tug at my hair in frustration, but the movement would have caused too much agony. I peered up into old and anxious eyes. "Take me with you," I begged. "I can make it, we can make it."

He laughed bitterly, his whole posture wilting from strong and patient to broken and unconvinced. "You can't even stand. I am not risking you. You're staying here," he ordered in a rough voice. I struggled to sit up, desperately trying to climb to my feet. The only reward I received for my persistence was a stab of pain and the darkening of my bandage. I gave up, not wanting to further damage my shoulder. My jacket slipped off my shoulders from where it had been acting as a blanket and the cold further affected me.

I panted heavily, feeling depressed by the fact that sitting up had nearly killed me.

"Dad, just wait a few days, until I get better. Then we can go together," I offered, trying to reason with him. He lowered down beside me, clasping my hand in his. I knew his words before he said them.

"You don't _have_ a few days," he whispered.

Tears finally escaped as I gave up the battle to be strong. Despite the revelation earlier, despite the knowledge that I would die, I wasn't ready. I didn't want to die. It wasn't an escape from this cruel, different world. It was just a path that I could take, a choice. Shit or shittier? Easy or hard? Cowardly or honorably?

I wasn't going down without a fight. I always thought I would die, taking down stiffs one by one as they came at me, in bloody combat or while protecting a loved one. Not by an insignificant bullet from a hidden coward. I wanted to stay and battle my way through this tough life.

"Be back by tomorrow night," I commanded silently, giving him permission to go. I knew he would've gone anyway, with or without my consent, but it would help him to know that I condoned his actions.

"Thank you," he murmured softly. I nodded the best I could while lying on the ground. Gulping, my eyes scanned the trees around us.

"Where is he? The man who… who shot me?" I asked. I winced at the fear in my voice, not liking the weakness.

My father squeezed my hand once, letting me know I was safe, before settling back onto his haunches.

"My shot hit his hand. He fell out of the tree he'd been hiding in. But as soon as he was down, he got away. He's out there somewhere with a busted hand and possibly a twisted ankle. I would've gone after him, but…." But I was bleeding out on the forest floor, he didn't need to say it. I glanced around again and my father sighed, dropping my hand. "He's gone, Rebecca. This place is safe."

I turned back to him, not knowing what tomorrow would bring. How could I trust my gut? My disposition clung to hope, forcing me believe that tomorrow would be better, but I had felt that feeling this morning, and look how I'd ended up.

I could just barely see him in the darkness of the night, but I could make out every detail of his worried face.

I held out my pinky finger. My father stared at it, a familiar smile curving his lips.

"I want you to promise."

He held out his own finger hesitantly. "Promise what exactly?" he probed.

"Promise you'll come back." He didn't link his finger with mine immediately and I glared at him. "I'm not asking you to guarantee that it will be alright. I don't want reassurance that everything will be okay. I just want you to come back, whether you find the supplies or not."

He offered me one of his paternal grins, reminding me of my childhood.

He wrapped his pinky around mine.

"I promise."

* * *

**What, she was shot? So soon? Did that seem rushed to you guys? It did to me, but then again, I've been trying to hurry up and get to our favorite hick. And sorry if I know nothing about dying and gunshot wounds and blood loss. I Googled and Wikipedia-ed the crap out of that, just trying to get everything right.**

**Review, I'd love to hear your commentary on this. I love everyone who has taken the time for this story! Thanks for reading!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hello, guess what, this is an update! Well, actually, I guess that was kind of obvious… yah. I'm hoping everyone likes how this chapter goes! I tried to get everyone's favorite crossbow hunter just right. A hostile asshole who still manages to care about people. **

**I give a big thanks for follows, favorites, and reviews! I express my extreme gratitude for all the reviewers who took the time to give me feedback on my story. **

**FrogsCanBePrincessesToo: **All your dreams have come true! Okay, I may have exaggerated the dreams thing, but Daryl is in all my dreams, so I assume that is true for everyone else…. *slight spoiler, but not really* Daryl is in this chapter! Anyway, I hope you like the update! *unicorns and kisses*

**SilverAdvenger12: **You've returned! Yay! Thank you so much for your encouragement and support. I always love to know how people feel about my chapters! *sprinkles and laughter*

**Carolinefdq: **A new reader means a new friend. Hello comrade! Did that sound creepy? Yeah… it did. Aaanyway, thanks for letting me know that you're interested in my story! *cupcakes and smiles*

**DIUC: **I'm sorry that last chapter felt slow, sometimes the awesomeness that I'm seeing in my head just doesn't get put into words properly. I guess that's just my inexperience as a writer. I'll try to do better next action scene. Although, I will give you this little hint, I have something planned for our little assailant, it was imperative that he not be caught! Thanks for the feedback and thanks for liking my writing style! *rainbows and hugs*

**Disclaimer: I do not own Walking Dead, however if anyone ever wants to give me it to me as a birthday or Christmas present, I am not going to object. In fact, I encourage your generosity. **

**The chapter, my good people!**

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**Stiff = zombie or walker**

* * *

"Are you good?" my father asked, hopping down from the lowest branch of the tree. The rough bark rubbed against my back, irritating my wound. My leather jacket laid across my torso, a bullet hole in the right corner. I shivered despite the warm air, the effects of blood loss becoming apparent. My body had grown colder than last night, not a good sign in the least. It meant there wasn't enough blood to circulate in my body and keep me warm.

My legs were tethered to a high up, large branch of the tree, my jeans scratching against the bark uncomfortably. My stomach had been tied to the trunk, the rope carefully avoiding my injury. A water bottle and a packet of crackers sat in between my legs. My pack hung a few branches over, the food that had been stuffed into it was now split between my father and me. I wouldn't reach for anything unless strictly necessary. My gun felt stiff and uncomfortable in its spot on my belt. I didn't know if I would be able to get to it if I spotted a threat, but at least it offered me the façade of comfort. My knife had been lent to my father. I had nothing more than a gun and some ammo to protect myself with.

I couldn't strain my shoulder. The slightest amount of pain would cause me to yelp loudly. It would draw unwanted attention. I couldn't make a sound if I wanted to remain undetected by any stiffs.

Despite all this, I smiled comfortingly down at my father.

"Yeah," I assured him, taking a deep breath, "I'm good."

He nodded. We didn't bother saying goodbyes. Goodbyes meant that one of us wouldn't see the other by nightfall. It meant death.

"Love you, Becky," my father grinned, using my childhood name.

"Love you too, daddy," I beamed, keeping the mood light.

With tired eyes, I watched as he strode a way, purpose and desperation in his step. As soon his retreating form could no longer be seen, I let my smile drop. I groaned, leaning my head back against the tree trunk.

The sunrise just barely glowed through the tree tops. It was a long way from nightfall, my father had time to scavenge for supplies, but somehow, I didn't think that I would have that time. I'd be dead when he got back. I could feel my body waning, needing to give out. I shouldn't have brain damage or any organ failure yet, but still, if I didn't get help soon, those were my best options if I was still alive when my father returned.

I closed my eyes, not asleep, but not awake.

I tried to even out my breathing, maximize my intake of air and keep my heartbeat steady. I would need fresh bindings soon, but I had no way of changing them on my own, not in my condition.

A few swallows of water, an empty packet of crackers, and an unfriendly squirrel later, I found myself fighting the effects of severe dizziness. If I hadn't been tied to the tree, I would undoubtedly be lying on the ground right now, a broken something or other contributing to my pain. I shut my eyes from the blinding sun, wishing it would bring me some warmth.

If I could see myself, I knew what I would look like. Sickly pale skin replacing my recently formed tan. Chapped lips, red and irritated from breathing harshly, despite my efforts to keep my inhalation and exhalation smooth. A bloodied jacket, and underneath it, a bloodied and stained shirt.

I opened my eyes as I heard someone approaching, my senses still working to remain sharp for me. Their feet landed silently, not making any noise. In fact, I didn't even hear any footsteps. The only thing I picked up on, alerting me to a newcomer, was the avid swearing ringing out in the forest. I tried to keep my labored breathing quiet, listening to their vulgar words.

"Damn fucktard… he don't know what he's talkin' bout," a masculine, southern voice grumbled. I turned my head slightly, but didn't immediately see anyone. I remained silent, waiting for a form to appear from the trees. "As if I don't see what's goin' on in that fucked up head of his," the man added.

My eyes finally found the stranger. He was tall, distinctly robust with muscled biceps and a lean body. His skin, as dirty as or dirtier than mine, was tanned from years in the sun. He carried a crossbow on his back and a gun at his hip. I thought I witnessed the flash of a large knife, but then he turned to the left and it disappeared from my view. I knew that if he noticed me and decided to end my pitiful existence, there would be nothing I could do to stop him.

I determinedly continued to stay immobile, holding my breath and scrutinizing the brutal looking man. Dirty blond hair, or maybe a brown, I couldn't tell from the filth, didn't even appear sweaty as he marched through the forest in the heat of the day. He wasn't paying close attention to his surroundings as he muttered angrily to himself. I knew that as long as I did nothing to attract his attention, there was a small chance he wouldn't detect my presence.

His furious mumbling came to a halt as glanced down at the ground. He clearly hadn't been expecting to find anything, but the expression on his face said it all. I knew then that he was a tracker-a hunter. He could identify each and every place I had stepped or touched. If he hadn't been distracted and had decided to search to ground a while back, he would've observed the brawl that went down yesterday afternoon. Surprise coated his relatively handsome-I decided to blame my scattered thoughts on blood loss-face. He bent down quickly, surveying the places I'd stepped and then been dragged. It had been a hassle moving me, trying to distance ourselves from the place of the attack. We couldn't stay in that one place forever, not with my blood, stained into the ground, enticing every stiff with the slightest sense of smell.

He rose back to his feet in a flash, crossbow ready and aimed. I ground my teeth together, praying he wouldn't glance up.

His eyes followed the tracks, slowly trailing after them as if he could see me walking in front of him. Despite the fact that his eyes were focused on the ground, I knew no one would be able to sneak up and get the drop on him. Even from a distance, I could see his muscles rippling, every limb tensed, his body ready to react.

As he came to the base of my tree, I began to panic. My hand groped for my gun, trying not to make a sound. I forced myself to fight the urge to scream as I upset the damage to my shoulder. I desperately attempted to get a grip on the gun and pull it out. He would find me. It was only a matter of time before he peered up into the trees. I needed to be prepared. I needed protection.

Suddenly the ropes around my chest, binding me to the tree, gave some leeway. My whole body jerked to the right, my shoulder harshly scraping against the rough surface of the tree. I yelped, closing my eyes at the discomfort of a bothered wound and at the disappointment of being the one who gave myself away.

When I found the will to open my eyes and ignore the pain, I stared down at a crossbow targeted directly at my brain.

"Who're you?" a severe voice interrogated. I breathed in and out, trying to find a way to talk through the agony. After several moments, each breath bringing another sharp sting to my shoulder, I rolled my head to the side, trying to get a better assessment of him. He studied me, observing my deathlike appearance. "You bit or sumthin'?"

I wheezed out a laugh. Slowly dying from a bite or from a bullet wound, which was worse? I didn't trust this man, but I knew that if he ended up killing me, at least it would be a somewhat honorable death. I had promised myself I would try and survive. I wouldn't go down without a fight.

I stared into his blue eyes, gathering the will to talk.

"No, just shot," I explained, my hand subtly going back to my gun. He appeared to consider something before nodding.

"Where at?"

"My shoulder," I replied without hesitation, if he gave me enough time, I would be able to reach my gun, and then at least we wouldn't be so outmatched.

"How long 'go?" he mumbled apathetically, eyeing my shoulder, though he couldn't see the damage with my jacket covering my whole torso.

I thought about it. Flicking my eyes toward the sky, I estimated the time to be an hour or more before twelve. It had been a while since my father left, but he hadn't been gone so long that the sun had moved directly into the sky.

"Maybe a day, probably a little less," I responded truthfully, my voice breathy and tired.

He scanned the tree up and down before inspecting me suspiciously.

"You get up there all by yerself?" he scrutinized, eyes narrowed, with a distinctly threatening redneck tone to his words. I knew without thinking about it that I would never give my father away.

"I'm stronger than I look," I boasted, covering up my lie with a small, albeit painful, smile. He didn't comment, not saying anything about how it would be impossible to climb a tree this size with no help and a smashed up shoulder. I had been futilely trying to discreetly get a hold on my gun when he answered.

"If you'd stop fumblin' fer your weapon, I'll help you get down," he smirked, nodding toward my hand. I instantly stilled, allowing my arm to fall limply to my side. Sighing, I glared at him, though my exhausted features undoubtedly portrayed nothing stronger than grimace.

"Why would I do that? I'm nothing more than stiff bait down there," I objected, my eyes roughly boring into his baby blue ones.

"Stiff bait?"

"Zombie food," I clarified.

He hoisted his crossbow back over his shoulder, clearly not perceiving me as a threat. "Look," he started, rubbing his strong and dirty hands together, "I got a camp set up 'round here, I can take you, see if we can get you patched up," he offered. While his intentions seemed honest, I hardened my stare in reactionary defense.

"Why should I trust you?" I growled.

He shrugged his shoulders, raising an eyebrow at me.

"You don't have ta, but with a busted up shoulder an' night comin', I reckon you won't last much longer up there, all by yer lonesome." He studied me, waiting for my reaction. If I remained strong, he could either pass it over a pride or confidence. If he decided it was confidence though, he would know that I had a reason to be assured. A reason like someone coming back for me with potential medical supplies. Even if he simply left me alone and thought nothing of my decision to stay, I knew I wouldn't be able to survive till night fall, not without some serious side effects. I squinted at him.

"I'm armed," I warned, hating to surrender, even now. He nodded, regarding my threat but not paying direct attention to it.

I kept my eyes trained on him as he spit into his hands and pulled himself up. Surprisingly, for his solid figure, he climbed the tree with silence and finesse, better than I ever could, even with a healed shoulder. I scowled to myself, hating that he was superior to me in every way at the moment.

When he reached me, I could see a smirk planted on his face, as if he had read my thoughts.

Instead of bothering with untying the rope, he simply pulled out his knife. The large, alarming hunting knife that I had seen glinting in his belt earlier. I swallowed nervously.

The ropes fell away from my chest and I struggled to remain upright, but didn't let him see just how weak I had become. I clenched my fists, forcing my protesting body to provide its own support. Next, the ropes dropped from my legs, tumbling onto the forest floor with a soft thud. I clenched my legs together, praying I wouldn't plummet to the ground along with the rope.

"I'm gonna need ta take a look at that shoulder," he informed, observing my right shoulder, clearly damaged by the way I favored it. I nodded, sure that if I spoke I would lose the focus that I had on not falling to the ground. He was overly gentle, much to my disbelief, as he peeled away the leather jacket. His eyes were trained on the area, as if he would indeed end up seeing a masticated bite instead of a bloody bullet wound. He didn't get to find out as he ended up examining only blood soaked bandages. "I spose you did this all by yerself too?"

"Yes," I murmured, meeting his burning sapphire eyes. As I said this, his mouth moved, as if he were biting his tongue, trying not to say something. He glanced back down at the dirty bindings.

Without asking, he grabbed my pack, shouldering it. I watched him warily, certain that was all he actually wanted. He was probably going to leave me teetering on the branch of this tree, blood pouring out of my wound.

He didn't. Instead, he grabbed me by my good shoulder, hoisting my arm over his neck so that I was leaning on him.

"Yer gonna have ta be okay to get down, I can help you with most yer weight, but yer still gonna need ta climb," he instructed, all business as he began pulling me from my branch.

I whimpered softly, trying not to be too loud as he forced me to descend the tree. He stuck to his word as most of my weight was distributed onto him, but I still had to endure the grueling journey down. As soon as my feet hit the safety of the ground, I pushed myself off of him.

"I can walk," I announced haughtily, not wanting to depend on this stranger for support. He shrugged, leaning against the tree indifferently.

I disproved my words as I took one step and toppled over, my legs not strong enough after so much blood loss. I yelped, a jolt of pain traveling from my shoulder to my chest. I heard an audible sigh.

"I'm gonna need ta carry you." Before I could protest, muscular arms were wrapping around my body and pulling me up. I reveled in the warm heat that they provided, but grunted my disapproval. As my shoulder connected roughly with a solid chest, I cried out, a surge of pain traveling through my whole body. He shushed me instantly, wordlessly scolding me for my outburst. I turned my head away, biting back whimpers and tears. I couldn't deny that the heat from his body was welcomed, but the discomfort of being moved again made my body ache with pain. "You need ta be more quiet, yer gonna attract every walker out 'ere," he commanded. I quickly deduced that walker was his own term for the flesh eating zombies.

I buried my nose in his chest, receiving the distinct scent of musk, dirt, and something else that was purely masculine.

"Sorry," I whispered, not wanting to upset this stranger when I was so vulnerable. He breathed out a slow breath before pulling me up higher.

"If you need sumthin' to keep you from screamin', bite my jacket, not the skin or nothin', just the leather," he offered, a strange air of kindness in his typically unconcerned tone. I did as he asked, grabbing onto the leather with my teeth and biting it hard. It tasted like sweat, mud, and again, something else I couldn't exactly place. I didn't linger long on this, just thankful I wouldn't end up biting my tongue off.

I shut my eyes. I supposed I should have been mapping out the direction we were heading, so I would be able to find my way back, but I couldn't. Not when the pain scorched so intensely. I settled for opening my eyes every now and then, spotting nothing but unfamiliar trees and bushes.

After a bout of silence, I released my hold on the leather, getting a grip on the agony burning in my shoulder. Sheepishly glancing away from the marked leather and saliva stuck to the surface of his vest, I studied the face of my "savior".

A strong chin, determined blue eyes, and tanned, smooth skin. Stubble grew along his jaw, indicating the lack of a razor. He appeared tired, but it easily went unnoticed under his powerful intensity.

"Rebecca," I enlightened, deciding my name was as safe as anything to give. He didn't even glance down at me, staring impassively ahead.

After another few minutes without an answer, I hid my head back into his torso, simply gritting my teeth, refusing to mar the vest with my teeth again. His response was so quiet I almost didn't hear it.

"Daryl."

I didn't offer anything signifying that I had heard him, but smiled inwardly, somehow happy with this piece of information.

It wasn't long before I began hearing the unique sounds of people. I didn't know whether we had already been close by, or if the large and quick strides of the man had made travel time faster. Murmuring, clanging, and laughter alerted me to the excess of people near. I couldn't distinguish if this was a good or bad thing. It could mean more trouble for me or it could mean less.

As I heard a distinctly childish giggle, I felt my whole body relax. Children were a good thing, children meant safety. While I expected the group to be twice as hostile as a normal if I were perceived as a danger, I knew with my incapacitated body, I wouldn't be presented as one, at least, not right away.

As we drew closer, I could hear the sound dying down as people were alerted to my presence. The pounding of footsteps, so different than Daryl's silent walk, ran up to me. I hid my face again, suddenly terrified of the unknown. A murmur of voices, gun clicks, and confusion hit my ears.

"Who is that?"

"Why'd you bring them here?"

"What were you thinking?"

"Are they okay?"

"Are they bit?"

I felt Daryl tense up, I knew that if I peeked up, a scowl would be displayed on his face.

"_She_ ain't bit, I ain't that stupid," Daryl growled. He spit, it landing next to someone's feet as I heard them scuttle away.

Fear consumed me as someone spoke up. My heart gradually began to speed its rhythm, beating faster and faster. "Stupid enough to bring her here, now were gonna have to deal with this the hard way." I finally turned my head around to stare at a man with a shaved head and beady eyes. A wild expression was on his face as he held a gun pointed at my face, less than a foot from my nose. I narrowed my eyes at his slightly insane expression, instinctually leaning toward the person who was holding me, no longer thinking of Daryl as a threat compared to these people.

There was a house a ways up. Nearer to us, about twenty or so feet away, stood tents and a RV. I surveyed the area, noticing horses and cattle grazing in the fenced off land. It was a farm, seemingly untouched by the horrors of the apocalypse.

Another man, thinner, with a kinder face and slightly paler skin, placed a hand on the insane man's arm.

"Calm down Shane, we don't know if she's a threat yet."

I scanned the people surrounding me. There were five in total: the clear leader, the one restraining Shane from acting on his wish to kill me. Shane himself, his eyes flicking everywhere with a mad shine in them. A large, gentle looking black man, keeping his gun out, but not aiming it at anyone. An older man, a rifle slung across his back, who didn't point a weapon at me, just observed me with sympathetic eyes. And a blond woman, her hand clenched tightly around her gun, who kept glancing from the leader to Shane, unsure of whom to follow. I strained my eyes, searching her face.

"Andrea?" I breathed.

She hastily turned her gaze from the two conflicting men to me. Her eyes widened considerably.

"Rebecca?" she asked incredulously. I sucked in a breath. My heart pounded even more rapidly as she inched forward uncertainly. She let out a short, sharp chuckle. "You're alive?"

I felt my pulse thudding throughout my body, forcing my wound to become coated with even more blood. I nodded to her, mutely answering her question. I had made it out alive in all of this, so had she, apparently.

As Daryl jostled me harshly, I gasped. I inspected my wound, noticing it leaking crimson liquid all over Daryl's dark shirt.

I quickly rethought Andrea's question about me being alive. "Well, at least, I think so," I said quietly.

Black marred my vision as I turned my eyes back to everyone.

Andrea stepped forward again. I opened my mouth to reassure her I was alright.

And then I blacked out.

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**So…? Did you like it? I'll tell you what I wasn't happy with, my use of syntax. Just ugh, but when I reread it, I'm like, "I sorta like it like this!" And then I'd be like "but the vocabulary and sentence structure! It matches that of a zombified kindergartener!" But maybe I'm too harsh on myself. Then again, maybe I'm too easy. **

**So tell me how you felt about everyone and everything and my writing. I would love to know! Thanks for reading! **


	4. Chapter 4

**Hey! Updattttte! *IMPORTANTISH* Alright so I might have said sometime earlier in the story that Rebecca's eyes are gray like her father's, but they're not. They're green. I tried to find my mistake, but couldn't locate it a second time! Sorry!**

**Love for follows, favorites, and reviews!**

**Flowers: **OMG! YOU LOVE MY GRAMMER? I'm not being sarcastic, really. I just felt so insecure about my writing on that last chapter and I love to know that you thought it was okay. Thank you so much! I really try to write well and make it so everyone can follow along, but I know that's not always the case. Especially with this being my first fanfiction story. I send you much love. *sprinkles and hugs*

**SilverAdvenger12: **Sorry for leaving you hanging! And I know! Daryl, he's just… and so… and yah. He's just _everything_. Thanks for the support and encouragement! *Money and friendship*

**DIUC: **Thank you so much for the feedback! I tried to make Daryl, well, _Daryl_. I also really wanted to show where this story is at in the show with how I portrayed the characters. I love that you liked this chapter, sometimes I'm just super unsure of my writing! *laughter and love*

**FrogsCanBePrincessesToo: **Thanks for the support, friend! *ice cream and hugs*

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Walking Dead, however, if slavery was still alive and well, I wouldn't mind owning Daryl Dixon. And there I go sounding creepy again… *sigh* oh well.**

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**Stiff = zombie or walker**

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_I peered around the room. It was a small café, unfamiliar and bright with a misty intensity. Round, clean, and shiny tables were placed strategically around the room, comfortable chairs surrounding them. At the back of the café, a display case stood, empty and vacant. The lights glowed bright, shining down on where the pastries and cakes should be presented. Coffee machines and espresso makers lined the back shelves, a cash register and menu stationed in front of them._

_I furrowed my eyebrows in bewilderment. I made a complete three sixty as I scanned my environment. When I finally froze my movement, confusion had fully set in. _

_I ended up plopping into one of the many plush chairs, trying to puzzle through the mystery of my location _

"_You always loved those chairs when you were a kid," a female voice snickered, love coating every word. I snapped my head up._

_My mouth opened and closed a few times before I jumped back to my feet in shock._

"_Momma?" I asked doubtfully. _

_She looked the same as I remembered. Her healthy, chest length auburn hair framing her soft, motherly face. She didn't have a gray hair, not even at the age of fifty-five. Green eyes sparkled lovingly as she leaned against the wall, a steaming cup of coffee in her hands. I had always been grateful to inherit those deep, beautiful eyes, but had been jealous of my sister, who had received her stunning auburn hair. Mine, a dull, burnt looking chocolate, couldn't even begin to compare._

_I didn't know where she came from, but I couldn't care. I ran up to her, pulling her in for a tight hug. She was my exact height, not too tall, not too short, but I still felt like a child in her arms. _

"_I missed you too," she laughed, responding to my unsaid words. I hummed in response._

"_Where are we?" I chuckled. _

_She pulled away, pausing to take a sip of her coffee, which had miraculously not spilt, and gestured around her. _

"_We used to come here when you were just a child. This is where your father and I met." I nodded appreciatively around at the small café, accepting her answer immediately as truth. _

_A bright smile on my face, I searched for my sister, believing her to be near. "Where's Riley?" My mother's content smile suddenly faltered, but didn't disappear. "Dad and I, we've been looking for you guys." _

_Her grin was now completely gone, replaced with a contemplative frown. _

"_Riley's not here, Rebecca," my mother informed me. I cocked my head, trying not to panic at the strange tone in her words. "Thank god for that too," she added in a whisper, more to herself. _

_I stepped back, suddenly noticing just how hazy everything seemed. How I couldn't see anything past the bright light shining in the café window. How I felt trapped, unable to leave this one room full of shiny tables and useless coffee. Everything rushed back to me. My injury, the stranger, my rescue, being separated from my father. _

_I peered down at my shoulder, seeing my lack of injury and noting my clothing change. I was now clad in a dress, a simple white sundress with eyelet lace and thin straps. My shoulders were bare, no bullet wound or scar marks on either of them. _

_A sick feeling came over me as I stared at my mother. _

"_Am I dead?" I asked bluntly, fearing the answer and looking forward to it at the same time. _

_She smiled faintly, it tinted with sadness and heartache. I held my breath. _

"_No."_

_I blew out a huge sigh of relief, unable to accept this as my end. _

_She didn't appear relieved though, just kept looking at me with a forlorn smile. Fear crept back into me. I took a hesitant step forward. _

"_Are you dead?" She didn't say anything and she didn't need to. The expression on her face said it all. Grief, regret, and sorrow mixed together, all showing clearly on her face, answered my question. "Oh, momma," I murmured, realizing just how real the possibility of her death had been. Just how real it _was_. Tears crept into the corner of my eyes. I shut my eyes tightly, forcing them to refrain from falling. _

"_Sweetie, don't cry," she cooed, placing her coffee down and moving toward me._

_I felt arms wrapping around me a second time, surrounding me in a maternal embrace. I did as she said, staying strong and keeping the waterworks at bay. I needed an explanation more than anything else. I stepped out of her grip after a long moment of savoring her nurturing touch. Studying her face, I felt sure I would see a bite mark on her neck or a bullet wound in her head, but her skin remained as clear as I remembered it being. _

"_How? How did it happen?"_

_Her emerald, intelligent eyes examined me. "I don't think that's something you should know," she whispered. I narrowed my eyes, daring her to deny me this bit of closure. She sighed, giving me a warning look. "There were too many of them, of those monsters. Someone had to distract them. It was Riley or me." I didn't cry or yell at her words. I understood them. I understood what she did, but I didn't have to like it. I kept my face emotionless, not wanting my mother to see me as weak when she seemed so strong. _

_I swallowed before letting my eyes drift around us. _

"_So where are we, really?" I quizzed._

"_Somewhere… in between."_

_What awaited us on the other side? Was it hell? Was it heaven? Was it something else entirely? _

_Switching my gaze back to her, I scrunched my forehead in consideration. _

"_In between what, exactly?"_

_She laughed, her normal light and airy attitude back. "Do you really think I'm allowed to tell you that?" my mother countered._

"_What are you supposed to tell me then?" I tested, grateful for a chance to see my mother, but intrigued as to why she was visiting me from… wherever she had moved onto. _

"_I'm here to tell you that you're special, Rebecca," she stated, a warm smile on her face. _

"_But-"_

"_You're special, Rebecca, remember that, you and your sister both. It's time for me to go now." _

_Her face blurred suddenly. The whole room, the whole world, around me began to flicker. Pieces began to fade before my very eyes. _

"_Momma?" I cried, jerking my body forward in attempt to capture her image. _

"_Wake up now," my mother breathed, as if she stood next to me and not across from me, vanishing before my eyes. Everything turned to black. The tables and chairs dematerialized. The walls and the light shining in through the windows melted away. My mother disappeared, leaving behind nothing but a black abyss, and two words urging me to find consciousness._

"Wake up." I groaned, awakening to aching bones and tender muscles and a throbbing head. Though a biting cold still ran through my body, I felt warm blankets surrounding me, helping my body temperature to stay even. "Wake up," a soft female voice ordered again.

I opened my eyes, instantly noticing the severe pain in my right shoulder. I groaned, trying to ignore the slight pounding in between my temples and burning in my shoulder. I remembered everything that had happened, everything, including my lifelike dream.

A lamp to my right cast a comfortable sheen of yellow around the dark room. I peered up at a woman. Her blond ringlets, so contrary to my mother's wavy auburn, were tied back into a loose bun. Blue eyes inspected me briefly before an intense light was shone into my eyes.

I whined in surprise, but managed to keep my eyelids from shutting out the offending brightness. After a moment of checking both eyes, she removed the beam, which I recognized as a small flashlight, from my eyes.

"Reaction time is fine," she murmured to herself. She flicked her eyes upward, pondering something. "Pupil dilation is equal in both eyes." I watched, abstaining from making any more noise. This woman couldn't appear threatening if she tried. Her face had lines of kindness, her posture mimicked that of a mother, ready to hug her child at any moment. Her eyes, though a radiant cerulean, held grief filled sadness. I instantly had the urge to trust her, but still avoided speaking, preferring to observe. She hadn't done anything to hurt me and I didn't think she would. When her cold fingers wrapped around my wrist and she brought out a stopwatch, I didn't even flinch. After a short amount of time, she backed away from me.

I tilted my chin toward to her, a silent thanks for helping me, whether she wanted to or not. She offered a curt nod in return.

"Hershel!" she called, retrieving a glass of water from a dresser across the room. "Hershel, she's awake!" Even while shouting, her voice remained soft and compassionate. Moving back toward me, she brought the water to my lips, batting away my trembling hand that grabbed for the water. I took a long gulp, relishing in the feel of the water wetting my dry lips. How long had I been out? "Small sips," she instructed. I swallowed another drink, taking in much less this time.

The door opened. A man with a stethoscope and gloves came in, shutting the door gently behind him. His hair was white and his face was aging, but he had sturdy steps and a strong aura. He quickly glanced at me before turning away. His voice came out slightly raspy as he spoke.

"How is she doing, Patricia?" So that was the woman's name, Patricia.

Patricia stepped back. "She is still pale. She doesn't appear to have brain or nerve damage, but I didn't suspect there to be. She seems coherent, though she hasn't actually said anything. Her pulse is at one hundred and ten beats per minute, healthy, but still going a bit fast. "

Hershel nodded, pulling up a seat and settling down beside the bed. The bed I was resting in, much comfier than the last one, smelt clean. I felt as if I was dirtying it with my sweat, filth, and blood.

Actually, I probably was.

Hershel placed a gentle hand on my wound. I winced, but didn't yelp. It took me a minute, but I noticed the fresh bindings. I smiled slightly, knowing that somebody, or _somebodies_, had been taking good care of me. I sighed, feeling significant less weight in my shoulder, though it still ached with a scorching pain.

"The bullet?" I asked.

"Rebecca, yes?" he implored, needing a confirmation of my name. I nodded. He sat back, preparing himself to answer. "You were out for about an hour. During that time, we gave you some pain medication through an IV, low grade stuff. We've had to ration out our drugs, so you're not getting much, if any. Any pain you experience is normal." I brushed his words aside, just grateful they deemed me worthy enough to waste medication on. "We were also able to get the bullet out, clean the wound, and stitch it up. I bandaged your shoulder with fresh bindings. It should heal nicely, but we have to consider the fact that you have lost a significant amount of blood."

I bit my lip, following, and knowing what that could mean. "How long before my body goes into shock?"

Hershel rubbed his gloved hands together, leaning forward with a contemplative expression. "You may not go into shock at all. You could pull through safely. Your body just needs to replace the blood fast enough. But you could also go into shock and your body could give out. I'm going to give it to you straight; we don't know what's going to happen here. We can only hope and pray." I let my head collapse back onto the pillow, closing my eyes. Hope? Pray? I had been shot, I had been separated from my father, and I had just experienced a dream expressing to me that my mother was dead.

"I'm not sure if I'm God's favorite person at the moment," I murmured. If it really was up to chance, if it was truly a gamble, then I concluded that my situation wouldn't end up with an optimistic outcome. I only had a moment to wallow in self-pity before my sister's and my father's faces flashed before my eyes. I needed to stay strong. If hoping was all I could do, then I would be the best damn optimist in all of history. I opened my eyes, trying to offer the man who had treated me a smile. "I guess I'll just need to have some faith?" I chuckled, my statement coming out more as a question.

He nodded, giving me a soft upturn of his lips. Hershel hesitated for a second, before shrugging to himself as if giving into an irrational thought. "Can I ask what your blood type is?"

Who would willingly donate blood to a stranger? Andrea and I had been close once, but that had been a long time ago. We were both different people now. It was a new world, one where she didn't owe me anything. I didn't even know if she possessed my same blood type. I hadn't identified how many people lived on this farm yet, but I assumed the rest of them wouldn't give their blood willingly either. I decided to answer anyway, a small piece of hope struggling to survive in my heart. "A positive," I sighed, feeling the desperateness of my response.

He stood up just as Patricia moved in closer. She had been standing in the corner of the room, out of the way, taking everything in, but as soon as she determined that Hershel's and I's conversation had ended, she leaped to attention. He turned to her solemnly. "I'm going to go talk to the others, inform them of her progress, tell me if anything changes." She nodded quickly.

"Wait," I called. He raised his eyebrows at me, lingering in between the doorway and the bed. "Where is my gun?" No familiar weight tugged at my hip. No gleaming piece of metal rested on the dresser. I tried not to panic, knowing it wouldn't be good for my body to handle the added stress, as I waited for an answer.

I didn't expect his response. I thought I would receive something about how I couldn't be trusted with a weapon, how it wouldn't be safe to harbor an armed stranger, but I heard something I would never expect to hear in an apocalyptic world.

"No one carries weapons in the house," he informed me curtly, a reprimanding tone to his words. I tried to keep my mouth closed as I relaxed back into the pillows. Really? A zombie infestation, plus the possibility of dangerous hostiles, and he wouldn't allow guns in the house? I slight smile came over my face unexpectedly. Something about it felt so normal and fatherly and ordinary, that I couldn't help but feel warm inside.

However, the feeling soon dissipated as I worried over my unprotected state. If I didn't end up dying from blood loss or infection, I would be extremely pissed off if, out of all things, I got killed by someone just because I didn't have a weapon to protect myself with.

As soon as Hershel exited, Patricia crept back over to me, patting my hand when she was within reach.

"It will be alright," Patricia comforted softly, as if sensing my bleak attitude.

I stared at her, taking in her worried but confident eyes. Something made me think that she truly believed her words, compelling me to put trust in them too. "How do you know?" I probed.

Her fingers twitched nervously and a dark and miserable shadow shrouded her face. She turned her head away.

"I just do."

I understood then, in just one look, I received the reason for all of her poise and kindness and pain. She had lost someone. She needed me to be okay so that she could maintain her courage. She needed to believe that people could survive in this world. That living wasn't a lost cause. That she had a reason to struggle through this difficult life. Who was I to take away her hope?

I nodded slowly.

"Okay," I offered, not disagreeing. She sighed despondently in response. "I think I'm going back to sleep."

Patricia pulled the blanket back over my cold form with an understanding grimace.

I succumbed to the weariness. If I didn't have anyone, would I be fighting this hard? Would I have given up if it had turned out that everyone I loved had perished? If someone I cared about had been killed would I be strong enough to survive like Patricia seemed to be doing? I could wish and want and imagine that I would, but I didn't know. Death would be easy to surrender to, willingly or unwillingly.

People feared death so strongly. In truth, I didn't want to die. People were counting on me to stay alive. I wanted to keep breathing for as long as I could. I didn't necessarily dread death as passionately as most individuals, but only because I had seen so much of it, of its affect, that I knew the truth.

Going on was hard. Attempting to stay alive and keep pushing forward. Fighting to live, to breathe another day, challenged you mentally and physically. Knowing that you couldn't give up, couldn't have a break. Knowing that you'd have to keep hoping and fighting for something better, something that might never come.

I understood, I really did.

Dying was the easy part.

* * *

I was awake, but I didn't say anything. I didn't alert anyone to my awareness. I waited. I listened. I observed with my senses.

"Are you sure you want to do this? Give your blood to an outsider?" Hershel interrogated. It sounded as if he had repeated this question many times before. I didn't take offence from the enquiry. It didn't sound like a warning. It seemed as if the old man wanted a last chance to confirm someone's request, to make sure they wouldn't be making a choice they would regret later on. A male voice, familiar, though I couldn't place it, replied softly in the background.

"Yes, if it was Carl on that bed, I would hope someone would do the same. She shouldn't have to die, not when we can do something about it."

I couldn't help the upward quirk of my lips.

"There is still the possibility that she could recover without the blood." I held my breath, thankful for this person's offered kindness, even if they didn't act on it. A silence followed, but then I heard the sound of clothing being yanked back roughly.

"I'd rather the chances of her living outweigh the possibility of dying," the man explained gruffly.

The sound of supplies being shuffled clanged in the background. "You sure, Rick?" Hershel murmured. I'd have to remember that. Rick, the man I now owed my life, along with a few other people.

I heard Hershel's feet shuffle over to me, ready to wake me up for the transfusion. I felt him hovering over me, waiting for an answer. I shut my eyes tightly. I yearned to see the person's face, but I would just have to wait until Hershel woke me up. Until the man gave his final verdict.

This time, there was no hesitation in Rick's answer.

"Do it."

* * *

**Whaddya think? I tried to capture the meaning behind the title of my story, I really did, but I don't know if my example went through clear enough. Anyway, how was the chapter? Interesting or, kill me before I die of boredom, uninteresting? For those of you who wanted to see the interaction between Rick and Rebecca, you're just going to have to wait, but, don't worry, I'll show it! **

**Tell me whatcha think! Thanks for reading!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Hey everyone, sorry that it's kinda late, I spent all day training my dog. You know. Sit, stay, lay down, rollover, play dead, attack. Stuff like that. Can I just say my dog is pretty damn smart? I gave him a bath and he freaked! He hates water. Oh, and I transplanted my tomatoes! Hope they do well. I don't know if you guys wanna hear about my life, but I told you anyway!**

**Thanks for follows, favorites, and reviews!**

**SilverAdvenger12: **Thanks! And I know, I'm trying to build bonds and relationships between her and the group, even if it's kinda early in the story. Hope I do well! *rainbows and awesomeness*

**Flowers: **Thanks you so much! Seriously lovin' the feedback! Sorry about cliffhangers, I'm evil! Daryl won't be in this chapter, but the next one. I feel you, I love writing him! I can't wait to incorporate him! *laughter and love*

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Walking Dead. But I do own my dog, and he's pretty gosh darn awesome.**

* * *

I stared at her face as she sat next to me on the old, wood chair. Her features looked the exact same as I remembered them. Same pale white skin, a slight tan giving it a bronzed tint. Same blue eyes-large, observant, and resilient. Same frown lines from stressing and brooding too much.

Andrea.

Sun drifted in through the curtains on the window, making the whole situation seem cheery. The joyful brightness fought against the grim tension in the room, creating an undefined, unclear atmosphere. I waited for her to do something, say something. I wanted to break the uncomfortable silence we had been sitting it, but I didn't know what words to use. I didn't even feel as if it was my place to start the conversation. I tried not to examine her features. I struggled not to push past that recognizable face. I loathed how I immediately noticed that Amy was missing from her side. I hated how that underneath that familiar façade, a world of grief and pain rested.

"Where's Riley?" Andrea finally asked.

I sat up further, feeling much better and warmer now that blood could easily circulate throughout my system. A slight headache still threatened to thud in between my temples and my shoulder continued burning like there was fire crawling up my arm, but I was healing.

"She and momma were supposed to be cleaning out our house in Florida when everything happened. My guess? Probably still there, holed up somewhere." Andrea's mask let some remorse and pity slip through, but then her defenses were back up in a second as she stared at me blankly.

"Do you think she's still alive? Do you think both of them are?" she questioned. I paused, recalling the delusion I'd experienced in my unconscious state. Whether it was real or not didn't matter, my subconscious was telling me something, trying to get a message through.

"I know at least one of them is alive," I sighed. Andrea nodded sympathetically, but remained carefully distant, unsure of how to act around me.

"Amy?" I probed, though I didn't want to know the answer. The expression she wore said it all.

Andrea seemed angered by my question, staring at me pensively before tilting her head down. When she glanced back up, nothing but grief was displayed on her face. "Gone."

I gulped, trying to move past that fact, fighting the urge to ask _how_. "I've been traveling from Atlanta, trying to make my way to Florida. When I got shot, it kind of put a halt on things," I informed. I could relate to her, we both had sisters, but we both couldn't be with them at the moment.

Andrea stared at my shoulder. It felt better, not by much, but still, it felt better. Clean, white bandages were wrapped tightly around my injury and no blood was leaking out of the stitches onto the fresh dressings. As long as I didn't strain the sutures too much, it would mend nicely. Nothing but a scar, a memento of my vulnerability, would be left. Because Rick had donated his blood, I would survive. I had contentment in my heart that someone would do me such a favor, that good still resided in our selfish world, but I couldn't help but think that I owed him a debt I might not be able to pay.

"Who shot you?" I glanced down at my clothes. My old shirt had been cut away for the surgery and my upper body was now clothed only in a black sports bra. I kept the blanket up, making sure to cover up the bare parts of my body.

"Some guy hiding out in a tree. He snuck up on us. It was my fault, I should've been paying better attention," I sighed. After a moment, I smirked, remembering that I may have received a wounded shoulder, but he had gotten injured hand. "He's out there somewhere, a bullet hole in his hand."

Andrea smiled, snickering into her fingers. Faster than I thought was physically possible, the smile and the laughter died away, replaced by narrowed, suspicious eyes.

"You said _us_." I didn't react for a minute, just swallowed thickly, grasping for some sort of explanation. She leaned forward intimidatingly. "You said that he snuck up on _us_. Who else was with you?" she interrogated. I tensed up, eyeing her warily.

I could trust her. I would have to. I had no other choice.

"You can't tell anyone. If you do, if you really have to, tell someone who will respond calmly, someone who won't react badly to an outsider," I warned. This group, while kind to me, wouldn't be so accommodating to a strong, male foreigner. She studied me for a minute before complying with a grim nod. "It's my father, he-"

"Tom's traveling with you?" A slight smile softened her features, making me feel marginally more confident.

"Yeah," I exhaled in confirmation. "He went to get supplies after I got injured. Did the man who saved me, Daryl, tell you how he found me?"

"Yes, you were just some stubborn bitch tied up in a tree, dying from blood loss," Andrea detailed with a smirk. I glared at her as soon as the words finished leaving her mouth. She put her hands up innocently. "His words, not mine."

I chuckled, relaxing. "Anyway, dad was out scouting for supplies, something to stop the bleeding and prevent infection. Anything that would help, really. Daryl happened to get there before he got back." I stared at the window, not really seeing anything past the curtains. My father was still out there, wondering what had happened to me. Had I been taken against my will? Had I fallen out of the tree and managed to crawl away? Had someone killed me and taken away my supplies? Had a stiff gotten me?

"I want you to be honest with me, no lies, was he the only person with you? Were you with any others?" Andrea demanded. I peered into her eyes, attempting to get my sincerity across.

"He was the only one with me, I promise." She focused on me, studying my face, searching for any indication of deception. I stared her head on. Trust was a two way street. I could be lying to her or I could not, but it wouldn't matter if simply she turned around and used the information against me. She could just as easily attempt to find who I had been traveling with. She could try to eliminate the threat. Just as she was putting faith in me, I was putting faith in her. She nodded slowly, receiving my message loud and clear.

"Listen, Rebecca," Andrea started seriously. "I can talk to the others, turn them onto the idea of you staying here. We can protect you. I know some of us may seem a little overwhelming, but we all mean well. We won't hurt you," she stopped, inspecting my shoulder, "_I_ won't let anyone hurt you."

"But my father, I have to find him, he's out there somewhere. I can't leave him alone," I stated resolutely.

"I'll tell Rick and only Rick, he's our leader, he'll be fair about this. He was the one to give you blood, you can trust him. We'll go out and search for your father, bring him back to you," she negotiated.

"And what if your people don't accept us? I'm no fool. Just because they saved my life doesn't mean they will receive my father and me with open arms. I'm an outsider, a threat," I argued vehemently while trying to keep my voice down and away from curious ears.

Andrea's blue eyes blazed powerfully as she shook her head. "I realize what it's like out there." She tilted her chin toward the window, indicating the zombie filled world we had all been forced into. "I understand how it changes people, but I also know you. I've known you since you were a baby! I can see it; you haven't changed, not really. You're stronger and you're tougher, but you're not a threat." She took a deep breath before continuing, her voice softer, "They trust me, they'll listen to me. They'll see that."

I rubbed my forehead with my good hand, the ache in my head returning forcefully. "Even if they do and I'm allowed to stay, I'll just end up leaving anyway. I need to find my family. They need me," I explained.

"You're no good to them with a messed up shoulder," she deadpanned. I scowled at her, covering up more of my body with the blanket as if it would protect me from her judgmental, authoritative gaze.

"And just what exactly is that supposed to mean?"

She sighed, her expression discarding some of its frustration. "All I'm saying is that it's hard enough surviving out there without a handicap. You need to stay here, at least until you're all healed up. Then, if you want to leave, I won't stop you."

I considered her proposition. I heard what she was saying with a sensible and receptive mind. I understood how rational her argument sounded compared to my strewn together words. I could barely stand without cringing in severe pain. Even when I would be able to move, I would be disabled and vulnerable, an asset to no one. I would be killed the second I stepped off this farm. This world had no room for the weak. It located and eradicated any imperfection. I'd never be able to reach my family. I wouldn't be able to help them, not if I was dead. Andrea was right, I wouldn't stand a chance.

I squinted at her audaciously. "I can leave as soon as I'm better?" I checked, considering with the idea of accepting her offer.

She raised her eyebrows, her attitude unyielding and firm as she surveyed me. "I'm not talking about limping around with a bunch of fake ass bravado. If you're going to be leaving, you better be one hundred percent, Hershel checked out, as healthy as the day you were born, healed, okay?"

I held out my left hand, having to stretch it across my body to where Andrea was sitting to my right. She shook it resolutely, but gently, cautious not to jostle my shoulder.

"Deal," I agreed.

I returned my arm to my side. "When you find my father, tell him I'm okay, don't let him do anything stupid. I think he'll believe you Andrea, but if he doesn't, just tell him this, he'll know it's me-he swore he would come back to me, and pinky promises cannot be broken." Andrea laughed affectionately, leaning back in her chair.

"Okay," she smiled. Her head turned toward me, cocking to side in thought. "I'm going to have to ask Daryl to help us. He's the only one, besides you, that knows where you were tied up at." I bit my lip in consideration.

"Is he trustworthy? I mean, if he finds my father with a gun in his hand, will he shoot first and ask questions later? Is he trigger happy?" I furrowed my eyebrows as I remembered the brawny man's weapon that had been aimed at me. I may have been experiencing one hell of a headache at the time and been dying from a bullet wound, but I didn't think I'd forget that anytime soon. "Or… crossbow happy?"

Andrea sniggered, then silenced herself as she checked behind her shoulder as if Daryl had heard her mocking blunder and would come storming in at any moment. She turned back to me with a shake of her head. "He's kind of intimating and all, and he could probably take down both you and me with his eyes closed, but from what I've seen, he's honorable. I mean he saved you, didn't he? That makes him okay in my book."

"Thanks, Andrea," I grinned, trusting her judgment, trying to convey how grateful I felt. I considered us on the same ground now, as if we understood one another again. It reminded me of the old days, back in Florida, whenever she would cover for me when I broke something or confirm one of my lies or save my ass whenever I got too deep into shit. She had my back when I really needed her. She was still my friend, even after a few years of distance. Even after a zombie apocalypse.

A rap on the door brought us out of our private conversation. I glanced toward the doorway.

Andrea nodded to me, signaling that our discussion had officially ended, and I smiled. "Come in!" I permitted. The door opened smoothly, and I waited for the only other two people I'd seen since waking up in this room last night-Hershel or Patricia. I instantly regretted my trusting words as a man with a shaved head, dark eyes, and muscular body stepped into room, turning the once pleasant atmosphere sour.

"Enough girl time, Andrea, you have to take your watch just like everybody else," Shane commanded mockingly, rocking back lazily onto the heels of his feet. His whole posture suggested that he was laidback and docile, but I could sense something off about it. The gun at his hip remained a little too close to his hand. His eyes, though trained on Andrea and steadily ignoring me, had done an apprehensive sweep of the room as soon as he had entered. He kept his back to the wall and his body pointed toward us, ready to fight or take cover at any moment. I may not know anything about him other than his name, but even I could tell he was unhinged, unsafe. A part of his mind didn't work in unison with the rest of him. Though he tried to appear calm and unsuspecting, something inside of him tainted the impression. He may have been a nice person at one point, but not anymore, not from what I could discern.

Andrea flicked her eyes toward me uncertainly before raising to her feet. Her whole mood changed. It shifted from carefree and friendly to obedient and tense. She took hesitant steps toward the door, her head held high in false valor. When she reached the doorway she pivoted to face me at the last moment. She appeared cautious in her actions. I knew then that maybe I wasn't the only one in need of help. Whether she knew it or not, I had come just in time to save Andrea from herself, just as she had come just in time to save me from myself. I would talk to her about this. She couldn't be questioning herself, questioning Rick, at least, not with Shane.

She eyed Shane, waiting for confirmation from him. He subtly shook his head, a scowl forming on his face.

The old Andrea I knew came out. She shrugged, a defiant glare on her face, and acknowledged me anyway. "Bye, Rebecca, I'll try and stop by soon," she informed, a rebellious ring in every word, daring Shane to stop her from doing what she wanted.

"Bye," I smiled. As soon as she exited, my features contorted into a frown. I tried to keep my face blank, but it didn't work. The emotions swirled inside me, a mix of resentment, bewilderment, and fury. No one, and I mean no one, did that to my friend. No one turned her from a strong willed feminist into a submissive bitch. Not Shane, not anyone.

I stared daggers at him, my muscles flexing and tensing, sending a jolt of pain up my shoulder. It didn't surprise me that as he strode out, he tossed me a threatening glower of his own.

As soon as the door shut, I settled back into bed.

I sensed malicious vibes coming off of Shane. Without knowing him, I understood that he was capable of horrible things. I knew he could take me out at any moment if he decided I was a threat. He could start a riot on this whole farm if he really wanted to. He could turn everyone, who wasn't already, against me. His whole presence screamed power and authority. He held some kind of social position in the group I'd encountered. I just didn't know how far his reign covered, _who_ it covered. He could kill someone; kill me, if he really wanted to and his group might not hold it against him.

The question was, would he?

* * *

**Hey everyone, so I know this totally doesn't explain Andrea's past with Rebecca, but it wasn't meant to. It will slowly come out over time. I want it that way so it shows their bond, the strength of it. I still haven't revealed Rick and Rebecca's talk, but I will. It's not that it's totally important to the plotline or anything, I just want to take my time building their relationship up. (Not romantic, that's for Daryl!) **

**Lemme know what you thought! Thanks for reading!**


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